A little rough and unedited. I had posted this a while back for a bethyl week prompt but took it down to edit so I'm sorry if anyone's already read it. Just a little one shot while I work on the next chapter of Red Strings. Review, review, review!

He wakes up with a drunken haze over him still. He has a passing thought that he didn't drink nearly enough to warrant his swimming brain; not nearly enough to forget her. The short, white sundress that swished and swayed as she walked over to him and for a moment he was so dumbstruck by her, so unwilling to believe she was walking towards him, that he nearly dropped the can of beer he was holding in his hands. And when her mouth started moving, forming words that slipped off her tongue like warm honey in that sweet Georgia drawl, all he could focus on was the red on her lips; thinking about kissing it off of her, having it smeared on his neck and chest and lower, if ever got so damn lucky.

Not that he thought he would. He figured he was lucky she was even breathing near him; couldn't figure out what in the hell a girl like her was doing at a party like this: just an array of pickups sitting in the empty parking lot of the fair grounds, coolers strewn on the dirt and filled with cheap beer.

He was contemplating all that hours later when they were sitting in the cab of his truck, outside his shitty house. How they even made it there; he didn't remember. All he remembered was her lips on his, and the red lipstick tasted like vanilla on his tongue and when they break apart, long enough for him to tell her they should go inside, the red is faded and blurred around her lips, down towards her chin and in one long streak towards her neck; a path he remembers making when he dragged his lips from hers and downwards.

Now, in the light of day he doesn't see her anywhere. He doesn't see the white dress that had laid in a heap next to the bed for the majority of the night. Doesn't see her strappy sandals thrown over by the door.

He runs a hand across his face, already knowing his luck had run out when he'd somehow managed to bring this girl into his old, one bedroom shack and got to put his hands on her. He was a little disappointed in himself for being disappointed at not seeing her there, at not seeing any evidence that she had ever been there at all. He hoped he could put her in the back of his mind; telling himself that it had been a dream. A really good, fucking vivid dream. With the feel of her beneath his hands and the sounds of her whimpering, whispering and moaning his name. Because at least that they knew about each other. Beth. No last name, no phone number. He wasn't the type to ask and he was probably not the type she'd give it to but he did feel the burn of regret at not even trying. Because now, looking about the empty bedroom, it really was as if she'd never been here.

With a sigh he picked up his shirt from the floor, knowing he had little time to sit and mope about a pretty girl that may or may not have been just a mirage. He had better things to do with his day. Well, no; not better. But he did have other things to do. Like going down to the Greene's farm per request of the old farmer; who swore a tractor was giving him trouble. Another day, another odd job until he got his shit together. Or until Merle got out of jail. Whichever came first.

He was just about to tug his shirt on, about to throw it over his head, when he noticed it. The stain of red lipstick on the collar and he caught himself smirking, thinking of her lips on his collarbone as she snuck her delicate hands underneath the hem of his shirt, demanding he tug it up and off and him only too happy to give her whatever she wanted.

He pulled the shirt on, a smile threatening to break his normally stoic face despite the absurdity of it all; of being so wrapped up in a girl he'd known for a few hours and would likely never see again but he didn't let his stubborn mind chastise him for being stupid; for thinking of her. As he pulled into the long winding driveway of the Greene's farm, he wasn't even thinking about it anymore; about the smile he wore as he went up the steps of the porch to meet the old man and of the stain of red lipstick on the collar of his shirt.